


Hell's TARDIS

by cinnabongene



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen, Regeneration, Twelfth Doctor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnabongene/pseuds/cinnabongene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's been some talk on tumblr about a certain chef becoming the twelfth Doctor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell's TARDIS

Clara looked up from the wreckage of the defeated man-eating Christmas presents. It had been an intense battle; wrapping paper lay shredded about the floor and projectile Christmas ornaments lay shattered. The Doctor lay in the middle of the rubble, breathing laboriously. One of the killer presents had strangled him with a strand of red and green ribbon while another had stabbed one of his hearts with a pair scissors. Clara, wrapped up in a strand of Christmas lights, had not been able to get to him in time. Now that she had wriggled herself free, she ran towards the Doctor and knelt down by his side.

"Doctor! Are you alright? Is there anything I can do to help you?"

The Doctor looked up at her weakly, the Christmas lights nearby casting a warm glow upon his pale face, contrasting his eyes which were quickly losing their twinkle. "Oh, Clara, don't worry about me. Who really needs two hearts? I'll be fine," he croaked out before succumbing to a coughing fit.

Clara held up his head and looked him over. "You're losing a lot of blood," she told him.

The Doctor shook his head in denial. "No, no I'm fine. Help me back to the TARDIS."

But as Clara began to lift him up, he was overcome with another coughing fit and collapsed back onto the floor, surrounded by a soft orange glow. "Doctor, what's going on?" asked Clara.

The Doctor looked up at his glowing hand. "No, no! I can't go now! Not on Christmas! I can't be taken out by an evil present of all the bloody things!" But he couldn't fight it; the orange light was growing stronger, consuming every inch of him. He gripped Clara's hand and whispered: "Geronimo."

In a startling burst of golden light, the Doctor's form disappeared in front of Clara's eyes. After a few seconds the light began to dissipate and the Doctor, half way between forms, haltingly rose to his feet. When the light dissipated, Clara gasped.

The Doctor looked at his hands. Well at least he still looked like he was a bloody timelord. Next he moved his hands to run through his hair. It felt not dissimilar to the haircut he'd had in his tenth incarnation. He pulled a strand down into his face. He was a blonde now. He'd have to get rid of this fucking embarrasing tweed jacket and wear something more respectable, like a crisp white chef's jacket.

"What are you staring at?" he snapped at Clara. "You got a fucking problem?"

"Uh no, not at all. Are you, um, feeling alright, Chef— I mean Doctor?"

"No I'm fucking starving! Get in the kitchen and make me some bloody food!" he yelled. "Now piss off!"

"Yes, Doctor!" cried Clara, running into the kitchen and throwing open the fridge. What was it the Doctor liked to eat? Ah, yes, fish fingers in custard!

"Come on, we haven't got all day!" the Doctor sighed impatiently.

"Here you are! Fish fingers and custard!" said Clara, placing the dish in front of him.

The Doctor glared at it disapprovingly but took a bite anyway and promptly spit it out on the ground. "Unbelievable. It's fucking raw! This fish is so raw that if the Daleks were here, they'd still want to exterminate it! Come on, Clara! I expected better of you! Did you make them from a fucking bag?"

Clara held up the frosty bag of fish fingers. "Well yes, how else are you supposed to make fish fingers?"

"Oh fuck me," the Doctor sighed, running his hands over his face. "Just get back in there and make me some risotto, yeah?"

"Yes, Chef! I mean Doctor!" stammered Clara, dashing back into the kitchen and rooting through the pantries. When she emerged a while later, she was holding a steaming dish of risotto. "Here you go, Doctor, fresh off of the stove."

The Doctor glared at it and stuck a spoon into it. "What is this rubbish? It's sticking to the bottom of the pan, Clara!" he shoved the spoon into his mouth. "Oh my God. This is fucking embarrassing. It's fucking rubber! This risotto is so bad I wish it was the Silence so I could forget I ever tasted it!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I can go make another! Perhaps a soufflé?"

The Doctor shook his head and threw a dish towel on the floor. "You're done! Just get back in the TARDIS!" he muttered as he stormed off into the blue police box with Clara in tow. "Un-fucking-believable."


End file.
